


John Comes to Sussex

by iriswallpaper



Series: Retirement in Sussex [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Black Male Character, Black Victor Trevor, Declarations Of Love, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Drama & Romance, Eventual Johnlock, Fluff, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Graphic description of drug use, Grief/Mourning, Happy John, Happy Sherlock, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Major Illness, Major character death - Freeform, Mary is good/not a villan, One Big Happy Family, Original Character Death(s), Pining John, Pining Sherlock, Post-Season/Series 03, Retirementlock, Romance, Same-Sex Marriage, Sherlock Holmes and Bees, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Sherlock-centric, Sussex, Terminal Illnesses, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, World Travel, children and grandchildren, happiness, sherlock is an apiologist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2018-03-29 00:48:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3876124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iriswallpaper/pseuds/iriswallpaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John both had two great loves of their lives. They had waited more than half their lifetime for each other. They’d both married and had good lives and now as widowers the time for their relationship had finally come. </p><p>A story of happiness, loss, rediscovered love, contentment, retirement together, family, friendship and late-life love.</p><p>Un-betaed. I know there are verb tense irregularities but the Internet said that's OK for flashback scenes.  All errors are mine and mine alone. It made me ridiculously happy to write this fic. I hope it makes you happy to read it - if it does, please leave a comment. Comments make me ridiculously happy, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1 – Of Pining and Unexpected Love

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Čeština available: [Johnova cesta do Sussexu](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5401631) by [kratula](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kratula/pseuds/kratula)



_**John was coming.**_ He was finally coming to Sherlock’s Sussex cottage. For Sherlock, _alone,_ no one to share him with. And they both knew what that meant.

John was a widower. His children were grown, off living their own lives with their own families. He’d retired the prior year and done a brief stint with Doctors Without Borders in Guatemala. The heat had been unbearable and humidity had nearly smothered him. John decided he was too old to start a second career in the Third World; when his commitment was over he gracefully bowed out and left the work to younger doctors.

John was deeply tanned when he returned to London and irritated at the city’s frantic pace. Sherlock needed to get back to Sussex and his bees, so his stay in the city had been brief. John started packing the day Sherlock left. Then he remembered to ask Sherlock if he’d like his company in the country. Sherlock’s loud laugh carried over the phone and put a smile on John’s face. That laugh was all the answer he’d received but they both knew what it meant.

***X***X***

After the baby came, a daughter, John had joined Sherlock on cases less and less often. Long stretches of time between blog updates had become the norm. Eventually Sherlock had hired a marketing/PR agency to continue the blog – it was his living, after all. It was tedious work for Sherlock to write case notes for the agency, but the fresh young employees could exactly copy John’s awkward style so he put up with the tedium in exchange of a source of continued casework. 

Another daughter followed close behind, then a son – three Watson children in five years. Mary quit her nursing job to raise the rowdy bunch. John took on an Emergency Medicine position, rotating between three hospitals. Eventually he rose to be Chief of Emergency Medicine for the hospital system. He developed a reputation in his field and often went abroad for speaking engagements. Some time along those years he went on his last case, but neither man knew it until months had passed. That milestone had gone unmarked but not unmourned. 

Then came the children’s cricket matches, football games, ruby games, swim meets. Sherlock sometimes wondered if the schools made up new sports teams just for the Watson children. The girls briefly took dance lessons but neither showed an interest. Interspersed were piano recitals, academic achievement award nights, debate matches, robotics championships. Sherlock saw John less and less and missed him more and more.

Until he met Victor. They met in a coffee shop – how clichéd. Victor was sitting at the table next to Sherlock’s. He’d leaned into the small gap between tables and asked Sherlock if he could have a packet of sugar from the stand on Sherlock’s table. Sherlock had looked up and for the first time since he’d met John, felt attraction for another person. Victor was tall – he had at least six inches on Sherlock – with skin the color of coffee beans and warm brown-cinnamon eyes that twinkled when he added a smile to his request. His hair was black but not entirely so: it was every color from coal to chestnut to roan all at once, shorn short on the sides and back and kinked into short twists on the top, carefully styled off Victor’s high, fine forehead. Sherlock had found himself speechless. He’d swallowed and nodded then handed the stainless steel condiment stand over. The hand that took it was large – even larger than Sherlock’s – with evenly trimmed nails and long tapered fingers. Sherlock found himself staring at those fingers as Victor placed the stand on his table, lifted a packet of sugar, tore it open and stirred it into his cup. The skin of the palm was pink while the skin on the front of those long fingers was rich as cocoa. Sherlock wondered how those fingers would feel on his skin. When Sherlock raised his eyes to the other man’s face, he found an amused grin. “Victor Trevor.” The voice was low, clear, the resonance of a deep church bell underscoring his words. 

Sherlock cleared his throat and tried to snap out of the daze that had overtaken his reason. “Sherlock Holmes.” Sherlock smiled; Victor’s grin widened to a genuine smile as he held out his hand; his teeth were even and shockingly white. The inside of his full bottom lip was as pink as his palm. Sherlock wondered how that lip would taste between his. He licked his lips and took the offered hand in a firm handshake. “Nice to meet you, Sherlock.” The accent was Australian but softened around the edges by another accent Sherlock couldn't place. Victor picked up his coffee and slid over to Sherlock’s table. 

And that was it – the start of the most beautiful thing in Sherlock’s life. Victor confessed later that he didn’t take sugar; he’d just wanted an excuse to start a conversation with the handsome man at the next table. Victor hadn’t been in London long at that point and was growing lonely. He really didn’t intend a pick-up when he’d started the conversation; he just wanted someone to talk to for a bit. But when Sherlock had turned his piercing blue-green gaze on Victor, Victor had known immediately he wanted something more than a casual conversation. Victor was born and raised in Sydney and attended university in America on a basketball scholarship. He’d excelled at University of North Carolina in both basketball and academics. He'd been recruited to play basketball in Portugal for the Lusitania Experts after earning his degree in Art History and Design. He’d played three years in Portugal and five years in Spain but tired of it after being traded four times in eight years. Victor had hoped exposure in Europe would lead to interest from the American NBA but that never materialized. He’d taken a holiday to London to inquire about jobs at advertising agencies. At the end of his eighth basketball season he’d packed his few possessions and moved from Madrid to London, leaving basketball behind except for pick-up games at the gym.

An instant rapport sprang between them; later they figured out what spawned it. Both men had given their hearts to inaccessible men, men who would never return the love they wanted to give. Sherlock had cried the first time he and Victor had fallen into bed after several weeks of dinner dates and snogging on Victor’s sofa. Embarrassed, Sherlock had sobbed out his story of unrequited love. Victor had held him close and told his own tale of love that would never be returned. Sherlock told Victor it could never work out between them; his heart was already taken and he could never really love Victor the way he deserved. Victor had smiled tenderly and told Sherlock that love multiplied, not divided, and that a person’s heart could multiply enough love for two people. He knew it was true because his heart had already multiplied to include Sherlock.

To Sherlock’s shock and delight, Victor was right. He’d fallen deeply and madly in love with Victor; a love that was accepted and returned tenfold. They decided to find a flat together once Victor’s lease was up. It didn’t seem fair to Victor to ask him to move into Baker Street, with the ghost of pining for unreturned love haunting every corner, and Victor’s flat wasn’t big enough for two. Tragically, Mrs. Hudson died peacefully in her sleep before they found a suitable flat. Her will left the Baker Street property to Sherlock. Together they decided to remodel and make it their own to banish the ghost. They sold or gave away all the furniture except Sherlock’s chair and bedroom furniture. Once they moved in pieces from Victor’s flat that he wanted to keep, they went shopping for new furniture to round out the décor: rugs, kitchen table and chairs, a sofa, a chair for Victor in front of the fireplace. Together they stripped all the wallpaper except the white-and-black iris pattern behind the sofa – they both liked the pattern and Sherlock assured Victor ghosts would not cling to it. They painted the walls bright white, making the flat seem larger and airier. They took down the heavy draperies and installed wide-slat white wooden blinds instead to let in even more light. They turned the upstairs bedroom into a guest room by moving out all of the old furniture and moving in Sherlock's bedroom suite - Victor's bed was bigger so they moved it into the master bedroom. Victor’s brother and sister used the guest room when they visited from Australia. At the end of the remodeling Baker Street was indeed a new home that banished the ghost that had lingered there after John married.


	2. Of Golden Days And Family Love And Friendship

Victor was neat by nature but had not usually complained about Sherlock’s messes. They decided to keep 221a for themselves instead of letting it out. Sherlock moved all his science equipment and experiments down to the kitchen of “A.” They turned Mrs. Hudson’s living room into an office for Sherlock; he finally a formal place to meet clients. Mrs. Hudson’s bedroom became his private office. They moved Sherlock’s desk and case files into it, where they had been able to stay hidden behind the closed door. Without biological specimens in the kitchen and case paperwork in the living room, 221b had stayed relatively tidy. Victor quietly straightened up behind Sherlock and they engaged a cleaning service to come in weekly to do the scrubbing, sweeping and dusting in both flats. Food wasn’t that important to either man so there’d been no fussing about meals. They survived on fruit, toast, salads, sandwiches and takeaway dinners. The one mess that Victor had success getting Sherlock to control was his smoking. With Victor’s support Sherlock finally kicked the habit and eventually weaned off nicotine patches. He filled the stimulant void in his life with even more coffee. When he’d read that lighter roasts actually had more caffeine than dark roast, he purchased a package of every coffee available at the closest market and conducted his own experiments to find the one with the most stimulant. He stocked up on the one his study identified as the most caffeinated and drank it round the clock.

Sherlock’s reputation grew; he was very rarely bored – in fact, he found himself turning down interesting cases because he was already overloaded with ones in progress. Victor worked as Art Director for an advertising agency. His hours were long and irregular, as were Sherlock’s, so things worked out nicely for them. Victor traveled to meet clients and Sherlock traveled for cases. They respected each other’s work and tried to schedule at least two evenings a week free to just be together.

Sherlock could never have imagined a life so _happy,_ so _easy_ , so _**right**_. He’d been nervous about introducing John to Victor but Victor had just laughed and said it was no threat to him to have John about the flat. Sherlock and Victor both became ‘family’ at John and Mary’s house, spending holidays with them and their children. The four adults kept a standing double date night each month. Planning rotated among the four of them which lead to many wry smiles and sighs. Victor always picked a sporting event, which John enjoyed and Sherlock and Mary endured. Sherlock picked a concert – orchestral or chamber music, of course, heavy on the violin – that all enjoyed even if John wouldn’t admit it. Once John had dragged them all to a Pearl Jam concert; Sherlock was surprised to find he actually enjoyed it. Victor bought him Pearl Jam’s complete catalog the following Christmas. Mary planned quiet nights of playing cards and takeout at 221b. She said after the noise and activity of the children, what she really wanted for her night off was to just sit quietly and relax. 

Victor and John formed their own friendship apart from Sherlock, just as Sherlock and Mary had their own close affection. Sherlock was relieved to be let off from pub nights with John and Greg. Victor was happy to watch a game and drink a few pints with them a couple of times a month. Sherlock made sure to even it out by taking Mary and Molly to lunch or a gallery. Uncle Sherlock and Uncle Victor attended as many of the Watson children’s events as they could manage, either alone or together. For a time Sherlock gave the children violin lessons but one by one they drifted off from the lessons; none of the children had a real passion for the instrument so Sherlock let the lessons taper off without remark. Victor took them to the gym and taught them basketball but since the sport wasn’t popular in London those outings tapered off, too. The Uncles sat in the family pew at the oldest daughter’s wedding along with the parents of the bride and Aunt Harry and Aunt Clara. They went to the hospital to meet their first grand nephew a year later Both men loved the Watson children deeply but were happy to retreat to Baker Street at the end of the day. The only time they talked of children of their own, they'd simultaneously stated they were not the fathering type then laughed in relief at their accord on the subject.

Molly became Sherlock’s closest friend. She’d gotten over her infatuation with him and it left behind a deep and abiding affection. As Sherlock had told her once, she mattered the most to him. Molly and Greg Lestrade’s paths continued to cross; Sherlock noticed the spark growing between them. He went out of his way to drag the DI to Bart’s morgue, making up reasons for Lestrade to examine murder victims’ bodies over and over. Greg had finally ended things with his cheating wife. The divorce was over quickly and Greg had his own flat and his daughters every other week. With Sherlock’s urging, he finally plucked up the courage to ask Molly for coffee. Coffee became dinner became dates three nights a week on the weeks Greg’s girls were with their mother. Six months later he proposed in the window booth at Angelos during a dinner on Sherlock’s tab. They married in a simple ceremony at St. Mark’s Church. Molly looked beautiful in white dress and veil and Greg shed happy tears as he watched her walk up the aisle to him. Both husband and wife, and the girls when they were with their dad, became fixtures at Baker Street. Greg and Molly sometimes joined the foursome for their outings, making it a triple date. Over the years Molly became Sherlock’s confidant as John drifted further and further away, buried under the busyness of family life and his demanding career.


	3. Of Marriage And Illness And Priceless Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This story is going to get sad for the next three chapters; I’m really sorry, but its how the story told itself to me. Sherlock grows as a person and learns things about himself that could never have happened except for the sadness. 
> 
> I promise if you hang in there for a few sad chapters, it gets very, very happy again.

Nearly twenty years passed in a blur of happiness, work and activity. It all crashed down around them one dreary November morning when Victor returned home unexpectedly in the middle of the day. He rapped at Sherlock’s office door. Sherlock looked up to see his lover slumped against the doorframe with a grave expression on his handsome face. Victor entered the office, fell into the side chair and in a mechanical monotone told Sherlock he’d just received the diagnosis of Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis - Lou Gehrig's disease. Victor had been tiring easily for many months and visited doctors more times than he had ever in his entire life, submitting to medical test after test to find out why. Sherlock hadn’t been too concerned, attributing Victor’s exhaustion to his metabolism slowing down with age and to Victor’s stature. It took more energy to haul around six and a half feet of bone and muscle than it took for shorter people.

Sherlock fell to his knees, clutching Victor’s thighs and buried his head in Victor’s lap, sobbing. Victor calmly ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and told him everything would be okay. Victor’s shock wore off two days later when they attended a consultation with a neurodegenerative disease specialist. The doctor calmly told them that Victor could expect to live between two and five years and that he would steadily loose function until he became unable to breathe, move and swallow without assistance. His mind would remain completely intact as his body failed. There was no cure, no effective treatment and no hope. The doctor had been distant and business like as he delivered Victor’s death sentence; that had allowed both men to hold themselves together until they left the office. The numbness that had descended on both at the clinic carried them through the cab ride home and up the stairs of Baker Street. There, they’d fallen apart at the same time, weeping wildly and clutching desperately at each other, trying to take comfort where there was none. Victor tore at Sherlock’s clothing, begging Sherlock to fuck him, to make him feel alive, but Sherlock had taken his hand and led him to bed, where they shared the most tender intimacy of their years together. 

The memory of the intimacy they shared that afternoon carried them through many rough moments during the next years; they spoken often that it had been their true wedding night. Sherlock had begged Victor to marry him many times over the years but Victor had always laughed it off, saying they had everything they needed and more and he had never worried about Sherlock being unfaithful because who else would put up with his shite, so why bother with a marriage certificate? Victor’s diagnosis changed it all. They married three weeks later in a small service at St. Mary’s Church attended only by John and Mary and their family, Mycroft, Victor’s siblings and their families, Lestrade, Molly and Victor’s close friends. Both men’s parents had passed on over the years. Victor asked John to be his best man, saving Sherlock the pain of doing so; Sherlock asked Molly to be his. Victor asked Sherlock to keep his illness secret until after the wedding. He didn’t want the day to be overshadowed by his grim prognosis. They jokingly told family and friends that Victor finally agreed to marriage after Sherlock’s twenty years of badgering and Sherlock wanted the ceremony over quickly before Victor changed his mind. The day was perfect and Sherlock had even managed to lock the thought of Victor’s illness away for the day. Sherlock felt like he was drowning in happiness when Victor slipped the simple, heavy gold ring on his finger. Both men shed silent tears as they repeated ‘till death do us part.’ Sherlock wrote a waltz for Victor and recorded it beforehand. They danced gracefully together to the sweet, sad tune. They spent the afternoon and evening celebrating with their family and friends and for those few, golden hours, were able to forget the illness that motivated the hasty plans.

They took an extended honeymoon in Italy, starting in Venice since neither of them had ever visited that city. Victor’s symptoms had been slight up to that point but Sherlock still berated himself for missing them: Victor tired much more easily than normal and sometimes dropped pens or forks. They worked their way across Italy to Rome, Naples, then on to Sardinia where they relaxed on the beaches and went snorkeling. Victor’s beautiful coffee skin tanned even more deeply in the hot Italian sun. They spent hours in the crystal waves where the weightlessness made Victor feel whole and normal. Sherlock lathered waterproof sunblock liberally and managed to avoid all but a slight burn. 

It had been a perfect honeymoon tainted by the slightest hint of bittersweet sadness. On their last night they sat on the white sand until the wee hours of the morning, finally talking about Victor’s diagnosis and how they wanted to spend their last years together. Sherlock wept but Victor remained dry-eyed when he declared that he didn’t see any point in medical treatment when there was no cure. He begged Sherlock to promise that no matter what, he would not allow Victor to be intubated and put on a ventilator. Sherlock clung to his husband, wild with grief, but finally nodded his agreement. They also agreed that their life would not orbit around Victor’s illness. They would continue their lives as usual, working as long as Victor was able, meeting John and Mary for evenings out, having dinner with Molly and Greg. They also agreed they would keep the diagnosis between themselves until Victor determined the time was right. They returned to their hotel room hand in hand and stayed awake all night, giving and receiving pleasure in equal measure until dawn.


	4. Of Breath And Storms and Letting Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this gets sad. It will turn around in a few chapters and be very, very happy. Just like in real life, it's the ups and downs that give people opportunities to grow.
> 
> Trigger warning: graphic description of terminal illness, graphic description of drug use

The first six months of their married life was as normal as their life together had ever been. Victor tired easily and slept more but otherwise kept most of his physical abilities intact. One evening in the sixth month Victor returned from a grueling day at work and collapsed on the sofa. He slept for several hours and woke to find Sherlock had moved the coffee table and pulled his chair beside the sofa. Sherlock was holding his hand and peering at him with the intense gaze he loved so much. 

“I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry, love, but I can’t. I’m exhausted.” Victor’s voice was thick with unshed tears. To let those tears flow would tear down their last defense against the illness. 

Sherlock nodded silently and squeezed his hand. That night in their bed Sherlock held his husband as he cried out his grief over giving up the career he loved. He stroked Victor’s hair and kissed away his tears until at last Victor fell into an exhausted, dreamless sleep. Only then did Sherlock get up and dress. 

He glided silently down the hall and kept the doorknob turned until it was seated in the strikeplate to avoid the loud ‘click’ it made when it caught. Sherlock prowled the streets of the city he loved, stalking questionable neighborhoods until he found what he sought – one of his old dealers, still in the trade. He bought heroin and a sealed disposable needle; just enough for one high. His mind screamed for rest, for just a few hours too stoned to know what was happening around him and too out of it to know that he was falling apart as his husband’s condition deteriorated. 

Carefully Sherlock lined up his supplies on the coffee table: a spoon from the kitchen, a wad of cotton wool from the first aid kit, his lighter, the needle, the small foil twist that held his temporary relief. He took off his belt and added it to the tidy display; he didn’t have any tourniquet tubing on hand. His breath hitched in anticipation. 

Victor found him there the next morning, knees spread with his elbows propped on them, hands pulling at the hair at his temples. He’d sat thus all night, craving the relief of just one hit and dreading the hurt in Victor’s eyes that would come when he sobered.

Victor loomed over him, standing silently with his hands at his sides. Sherlock dropped his hands and hung his head, eyes closed against the anguish in his mind. He waited for Victor’s rage, for his hurt, for the betrayal he’d hear in his husband’s beloved voice.

It never came; instead Victor took a seat beside Sherlock on the sofa and pulled him gently to his chest, cradling his head and shoulders like a precious infant. 

Sherlock was unable to bear Victor’s grace. He fell apart, screaming his anguish and guilt in great wordless shrieks. His husband held him tight and murmured reassurances, petting his hair and wiping away tears with gentle fingers. When Sherlock calmed at long last he apologized to Victor for letting him down and betraying his trust. Victor calmly continued to give grace, saying that Sherlock had succumbed to the temptation to buy smack but had resisted actually using it; he was proud that Sherlock was able to resist temptation all night. 

Sherlock sat on the sofa, dejected, and watched while Victor picked up everything from the coffee table except the belt, put the spoon in the sink and binned the rest. When Victor picked up the belt, Sherlock half-hoped that Victor would flay him with it. Instead, Victor knelt between Sherlock’s knees and carefully threaded it through the belt loops of his trousers, leaving it unbuckled. Victor rose, pulled Sherlock to his feet and hugged him fiercely before turning to the kitchen to start breakfast.

Victor notified the agency owners that day. He recommended his assistant art director be promoted to fill his job. Victor agreed to work on a part time basis as long as he was needed to ensure a smooth transition. The owners agreed immediately and by the end of the day, Victor was boxing up his personal items from his office with the help of the new Art Director. Victor took to sleeping in and going into the office afternoons only. That quickly tapered off to going in just three afternoons a week, then two, then going in only when called. His last day passed without remark, just as he wanted – no party, no fuss, no tears. Sherlock also tapered off his work; he became more selective about cases and only took those that did not involve travel. 

They took holidays to places Victor had always wanted to visit: Cancun, Monaco, Casablanca. Sherlock dealt with the beaches with heavy sunscreen and beach umbrellas. He began to develop a golden tan for the first time in his life. They spent three weeks in Sydney where Victor showed Sherlock his childhood haunts. They spent time with Victor’s sister and brother and their families and looked up Victor’s school mates. They had several friendly reunions with groups of his childhood friends. When they boarded the plane at Sydney Airport it felt like closure – a happy closure with no hint of bitterness. 

They flew home via North Carolina so Victor could show Sherlock his alma mater. Most of Victor’s professors had retired and the coaching staff had had a full turn over, but Victor’s name was still known in the athletics department and several of his basketball records still stood. The Athletic Director took a half day to show them around and the head basketball coach had met them in the Dean Smith Center arena for a full tour. The coach also sent them to the university photographer. He said he wanted to create an award in Victor’s honor; Victor had corrected him with ‘in my memory.’ Victor rambled on with stories of his playing days while Sherlock tried not to cry. They spent the night in Chapel Hill and left for home the next day. Victor was utterly exhausted that night and upset that he didn’t have the energy to walk the campus and show Sherlock around. Sherlock held him while he cried; it was the first time Victor showed bitterness at his fate.

The first two years after Victor’s diagnosis he experienced a gradual decline. If Sherlock had graphed it, the slope would have been no more than 15%. Fate had been kind to them, taking things away from Victor slowly during the early years. But Fate has a way of taking what’s due: If the slope of decline was shallow the first two years, the third year was like falling off a cliff. Victor seemed to lose more functions daily. 

By the end of the third year he was unable to hold a pen, eat without assistance or type. He could walk only short distances and then only with the aid of crutches. Sherlock found communication apps for Victor’s phone and laptop that allowed him some autonomy. 

His voice had become reedy as his diaphragm succumbed to paralysis. During one of his infrequent doctor’s appointments – he refused to make rounds of appointments the focus of his life when there was no hope for a cure – Victor’s doctor had recommended surgery to implant a diaphragm pacing system, a device that would artificially stimulate his diaphragm to contract and expand, similar to the way a pacemaker stimulated a heart to beat.

Later that night they discussed the surgery. Victor adamantly refused it and Sherlock became furious. He argued that the DPS could give Victor months longer, if not an additional year to live. Victor looked at his husband with sad eyes and told him he didn’t want to stretch it out longer, that the DPS would only prolong the very end, when he’d be locked in his body and unable to move.

Sherlock shouted and paced the living room like a caged tiger, impotent fury radiating off him waves. Victor sat calmly on the sofa with his hands folded in his lap and sympathy in his eyes. At last Sherlock ran out of steam and flopped down with his head in Victor’s lap. He turned his face into Victor’s belly and bawled like a toddler. Victor rubbed his neck, carded his fingers through Sherlock’s curls and gently caressed his face until his storm was spent. 

When he ran out of tears, Sherlock looked up into Victor’s calm eyes and asked, “Why are you comforting me? For god’s sake, you’re the one who is going to smother to death eventually.” 

Victor just smiled and caressed Sherlock’s cheekbone with a gentle thumb. “Because it’s easier to die than be left behind. I have it easy, my love. I won’t be around to see your grief.”

Victor’s words set off a new storm in Sherlock. He cried until he was rung out and fell asleep with his face pressed into his husband’s damp shirt.

Still smoothing the sleeping Sherlock's curls, Victor fished his phone out of his pocket and called John. He told John about his decision and asked him to come.

John was sitting in Sherlock’s chair when Sherlock awoke. He and Victor had already discussed the DPS and Victor’s prognosis with and without the device. While John was an emergency medical physician, he’d began studying ALS when Victor was diagnosed; he agreed with Victor’s decision as a doctor but mourned it as a friend. Sherlock sat up blearily when John handed him a mug of tea. The three men calmly discussed Victor’s options and by the end of the evening, Sherlock grudgingly accepted Victor’s decision. Sherlock walked John down to the front door, where John hugged him tightly for a very long time. There were tears in John’s eyes when he turned to the door.


	5. Of pain and friends and devastating decisions

Victor’s condition degraded quickly. He gave in to using a wheelchair part of the time. Sherlock researched available options and purchased two of the best electric wheelchairs available. He also ordered a chair lift installed on the stairs at Baker Street. All combined it had still cost less than installing a true lift. They left one wheelchair in the corridor to be used for outings and the other in 221b. Sherlock had entirely stopped working by this time. He would never have thought himself capable of caring for another human being, but had found he relished caring for Victor and truly didn’t miss his work. The door to 221a remained closed most days and Sherlock had never given it a thought. He’d tenderly helped Victor with physical tasks, trying to find the best ways they could do what was needed together. He cooked more since it had become harder to find things Victor could eat at restaurants. Sherlock made sure they left the flat every day, if only to take a lap around the park and have coffee at Speedy’s. Their world had shrunken steadily with Victor’s decline, but Sherlock was determined it would not coalesce to be only Baker Street. 

John became a fixture in their lives during that time. He stopped by several times a week and had took over as Victor’s personal physician. He spent substantial time researching options to make Victor more comfortable and accompanied them to many of Victor’s visits with the neurodegenerative diseases specialist. Mary, Greg and Molly were there often, too, sitting with Victor when Sherlock needed to leave the flat. Mary helped with grocery shopping until Sherlock found a home delivery service. They kept up their monthly date nights but they were limited by accessibility issues.

Victor adamantly refused to order a hospital bed. He told Sherlock that their bed was the only place he felt normal, like he wasn’t an invalid. Sherlock carefully stacked pillows for him, adding more as his breathing became more difficult. They slept closely together with Sherlock propped on the pillows, too. Eventually John recommended Victor use a BiPAP machine to help his breathing – an external device that forced air into his lungs then paused to allow his chest wall muscles to expel it. After a week of arguing among the three of them, Victor acquiesced and found blessed relief with the machine. He jokingly told John he would never fight him on any future recommendations. The BiPAP tubes and mask made it harder to sleep entwined; Sherlock hated that, but he’d trade nighttime closeness for Victor’s improved color and mood now that his breathing had been eased.

Speaking began to tire Victor out so Sherlock and John searched for assistive communication devices. Sherlock ordered a specially configured iPad that could track Victor’s eye movements and create messages. Victor used it to communicate when he was feeling especially tired, typing out replies to Sherlock’s questions or composing his own messages. Eventually he relied on it more and more, speaking less and less. Sherlock missed the sound of his husband’s voice.

Three and a half years after his diagnosis, Victor broached the topic of pain control with John. He’d never complained about pain before but Sherlock had deduced his pain increasing as his body became more wasted from inactivity. The stretches Sherlock performed daily on Victor’s wasted limbs could not take the place of weight-bearing use of muscles and tendons. At first Victor used oral pain medications but as swallowing became more difficult, John recommended a patient-controlled analgesia pump. The PCA meant a port must be implanted in Victor’s chest; John volunteered to do it at home, to avoid a hospital trip for Victor. Sherlock had been unable to watch as the equipment was delivered. He asked Mary to sit with Victor as he walked the city, mile after mile, trying to calm himself with movement. When he returned home, both John and Mary were there. John had implanted the port under local anesthesia and connected the PCA; Victor appeared to be much more comfortable than when Sherlock left.

The sight of Victor in his chair, surrounded by the BiPAP on one side and the PCA on the other reduced Sherlock to tears. John grabbed his wrist roughly and pulled him down the stairs. He shoved Sherlock into the door of 221a and slammed it behind them. He grabbed Sherlock by the upper arms and shook him – hard. Sherlock’s head snapped back like a ragdoll. John rose to his toes and bit off words right in Sherlock’s face, telling the younger man to pull himself together for Victor’s sake. John’s face was crimson; he’d bitten out each word with icy fury. He told Sherlock it was time for him to comfort Victor instead of taking comfort from him and time for Sherlock to stop being such a drama queen. He shook Sherlock again for good measure, stormed out and slammed the door behind him. Sherlock took a few minutes to gather his wits and calm down. When he opened the door he found John in the hall, bent over with his hands on his knees, breathing hard. He stepped forward and laid a gentle hand on John’s back; John pulled Sherlock close. They swayed together in misery for a few minutes until John stepped back and assumed his Captain Watson posture. Sherlock composed himself and together they returned to 221b with smiles. Victor had fallen asleep in his wheelchair while the other men were downstairs. Mary and John stayed awhile. They ordered takeout for dinner and made sure Sherlock ate. 

Getting to bed that night was even more complicated than usual. Sherlock lifted Victor into the bed while trying to keep the BiPAP and PCA lines separated. He spent several minutes arranging both machines beside the bed before crawling in beside his husband. Victor tried to remove the BiPAP mask, weakly lifting his hand but unable to grasp the plastic. Sherlock tenderly removed it and asked what was the matter. Victor broke down, gasping and crying, telling Sherlock it was truly the beginning of the end. Sherlock petted and soothed his husband and had for once retained his composure. He assured Victor he would be there for him until the end, that he’d make sure Victor stayed comfortable and didn’t suffer. Victor calmed and asked, “Can you make love to me, one last time?” It was then Sherlock cried, when he realized it had been weeks since he’d done more than kiss Victor’s temple. Sherlock pressed his lips gently against Victor’s chapped lips, gently opening his husband’s mouth with his tongue, breathing into Victor’s mouth in place of the BiPAP machine, He caressed every inch of Victor’s flesh, kissing his fingertips and the inside of his ankles. And gave Victor a gentle, shivering orgasm, like a silver sparkler burning and twinkling in the night. Then took Victor’s hand into his and brought himself off as Victor watched, smiling. He curled around Victor afterwards, murmuring endearments and promises that it would not be the last time. And it wasn’t. As Victor’s health deteriorated, Sherlock held his sexual needs as important as his physical and emotional needs.

Victor relied on the PCA more and more, sleeping for long stretches during the day and sleeping peacefully through night. (Sherlock had quickly figured out how to override the controls of the machine to give Victor a slight bump at bedtime.) During one of John’s visits, when Victor drifted off on the sofa, Sherlock and John frankly discussed how Victor could end his pain without legal consequences to Sherlock. John calmly wrote a prescription for slightly more painkiller than was warranted by Victor’s current use. He advised Sherlock to store the excess in the refrigerator. He assured Sherlock he’d continue to overestimate the dose as Victor’s needs increased so that when the time came, Victor would have enough on hand to make his final decision. John already knew that Sherlock knew how to override the PCA controls; he advised his friend to open the tap full-on when the day came. Sherlock told Victor the plan that night when they reclined in bed. He held Victor’s iPad up so they could discuss it but Victor had simply typed out, “Yes. Good plan,” and weakly reached for Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock curled their fingers together and kissed Victor’s knuckles tenderly and managed to stay dry-eyed.


	6. Of letting go

The morning he’d been unable to swallow even the smallest bite of soft cooked egg, Victor told Sherlock he was done. He pulled up a calendar on his iPad and set a date for two weeks out. Sherlock remained strangely calm as he agreed to the date Victor would die. John came that evening and together they discussed logistics of painkiller overdose and what both Victor and Sherlock could expect.

Victor put together a list of people he wanted to see. Sherlock helped him compose an email to send to them, inviting them to stop by Baker Street any morning or evening. They reserved the afternoons for just the two of them, for napping and making love, talking and outings. Everyone came - some alone and some in groups - all the people Victor loved and who loved him. His siblings, nieces and nephews came from Australia. They stayed in a hotel to give Victor and Sherlock time to be alone together. John and Mary and their children came to say goodbye. Greg and Molly brought his girls. Associates from Victor’s agency came with the owners. Pro basketball players came from around Europe. Victor was overwhelmed at the outpouring of love that filled his last days.

One afternoon Victor spent a very long time composing a message for Sherlock on his iPad, carefully keeping his wheelchair angled for privacy and not meeting Sherlock’s glance. Sherlock understood that his husband wanted privacy so he retreated downstairs to 221a, leaving the doors open so he could hear any activity upstairs. 

Over an hour later Victor signaled Sherlock with a text. He asked Sherlock to help him out of the wheelchair. They sat on the sofa, Victor in Sherlock’s lap with his long, wasted legs draped over the length of the cushions. Sherlock held Victor gently as he read the message. Victor asked Sherlock’s permission to summon the other man who had shared Victor's heart; he wanted to see him one last time. He told Sherlock that he didn’t want to hurt him, but that Victor did want to see his first love just once again. He told Sherlock that he loved him more than any other person and that his request didn’t changed that fact. Victor avoided Sherlock’s eyes, obviously uncomfortable as Sherlock read. When he finished, Sherlock calmly met his husband’s eyes and told him how much he appreciated the years of generosity Victor had given him by allowing John to be part of their life together. He said that he’d be honored to have Victor’s other love in their home and that he was sorry that he hadn’t thought to suggest it earlier, when Victor had been in better condition to receive visitors. They cried together and Sherlock carried Victor to bed and loved him as if he were made of spun glass. The next day he easily located Victor’s first love online. They composed an email together and Sherlock sent it in the early afternoon. Sherlock’s phone chimed in less than an hour. He put it on speaker so he could act as interpreter for Victor to chat with his friend. He agreed to come to Baker Street that evening.

Mark was the same age as Victor. They’d played basketball together in Spain. Mark was an American, originally from Detroit, tall and fit with lanky grace. His curly black hair was close-cropped and showed no sign of gray. His skin, the color of coffee with cream, was smooth and unlined. He was genuinely nice; his friendly, open personality as lovely as his appearance; his dark brown eyes were warm and gentle. Sherlock understood how Victor could fall in love with such a man. Mark bent and embraced Victor carefully in greeting. Sherlock explained the iPad communications to Mark then excused himself to do some work downstairs. He left the doors open in case Victor needed assistance but put on soft music to mask the conversation upstairs. Sherlock tided his supplies then moved on to reviewing his blog. He still had the agency updating the blog, using notes from old cases he’d never posted. The blog had a note stating he was not taking cases at the time, but to check back for Mr. Holmes’ availability. He knew he’d need work, and lots of it, to keep him from cracking apart once Victor was gone.

His phone chimed over an hour later. He entered 221b to find Victor and Mark sitting close together on the sofa; Mark was holding Victor’s hand. They both smiled, Mark broadly and Victor weakly. Sherlock took his usual chair and they visited for another quarter an hour before Victor drifted off to sleep. Mark stayed on chatting with Sherlock for a while, still holding Victor’s hand. Sherlock walked Mark to the door where Mark had hugged him close. Like John before him, Mark had tears in his eyes as he left. Sherlock settled Victor more comfortably on the sofa when then sat watching him sleep. He wanted to know what the two men had talked about but didn’t want to wake his peacefully-sleeping husband. Victor slept on, not even waking as Sherlock carried him to bed and carefully held him through the night. 

The next morning he typed a stream of messages for Sherlock: he thanked him for contacting Mark, told him that their life together had been so much more than he could ever have had with the other man, gave him details of their talk. Sherlock puttered about the flat and flew to Victor’s side each time the message bell chimed. It was a glorious day for them – Victor had more energy than he’d had in weeks. They went out in the afternoon. Sherlock called for a specially outfitted cab that could accommodate Victor’s wheelchair. He settled Victor in the seat, carefully arranging the PCA and BiPAP machines, then asked the driver to just drive at random They drove for hours with Sherlock remembering stories of their life together at landmarks they passed loud enough for both Victor and the driver to hear. Victor remained awake and alert; he’d asked Sherlock to dial down the PCA so he could enjoy the ride. Finally they stopped for dinner at Angelo’s after Sherlock told his husband he wanted their last dinner out to be special. Sherlock carefully mashed lasagna into a paste and fed Victor tiny bites by candlelight. Victor was able to swallow more than he’d managed in days. They shared a bottle of Angelo’s finest red wine – what did it matter if Victor mixed alcohol with painkillers at that point? The evening was beautiful and loving and almost too painful for Sherlock to bear.

The next day was their last full day together. Everyone they’d contacted had already visited so they expected to be uninterrupted. But that morning they were surprised to hear a key in the lock of the front door. John and Mary had come up, Mary with a basket in her arms and John with a blanket over his. They invited their friends to a picnic at the park. Victor accepted with shining eyes. The day was warm and sunny. They walked at Victor’s wheelchair’s sedate pace until they found a grassy spot in the sun. Mary spread the blanket then Sherlock lifted Victor from the wheelchair; Sherlock sat on the blanket and stretched his legs out before him then settled his husband between them, reclining against Sherlock torso with his arm tight around Victor’s chest. They ate and talked the afternoon away, the conversation slowed by Victor’s typed responses. They made their way back to Baker Street where John and Mary refused the invitation to come up; they would be coming the following evening but didn’t bring it up. Sherlock and Victor spent the evening just lying on the sofa, Victor safe in the arms of his husband. They talked little but the silence between them was one of contentment. Sherlock surprised himself by being able to hold off the anguish of knowing it was their last evening together. He boxed up the thought, taped the box thoroughly and shoved it into a dark closet of his mind palace; that freed him to enjoy the moment, the warmth of Victor against him, the rise and fall of his chest aided by the BiPAP machine, the faint traffic sounds from the street below, the Victor’s favorite soft jazz music floating low from the sound system.

Sherlock ensured their last day together would be happy. He drew a warm bath before Victor woke and added scented salts to soften the water. He woke his husband with a gentle kiss then carried his too-light frame to the tub. He settled behind Victor, holding his torso tightly. The warmth and weightlessness of the water helped relieve the pain in Victor’s muscles and joints. They stayed for an hour, adding hot water as the tub cooled. Sherlock tenderly washed Victor’s hair, rinsed and styled it. After toweling off he carried his beloved back to bed and spent the rest of the morning gently loving him.

Victor had been reduced to a near-liquid diet. Sherlock made a peanut butter and chocolate milkshake, Victor’s favorite, for their last lunch. Sherlock sipped his shake while carefully spooning Victor’s for him. Sherlock played violin for Victor after lunch and he started to drift off; Sherlock let him but only for half an hour. They’d agreed that 6 pm would be the time Sherlock should override the PCA controls. Sherlock tried to keep the hours at bay, lying together in their big bed, holding his husband and talking about all the good years they’d had together, Victor sometimes composing replies on his iPad. Too soon, the clock chimed 6 and Sherlock had to face reality. He fought an overwhelming urge to beg his husband for just one day, to please put this off for just one more day but he knew that Victor would agree for his sake, and that he’d beg again the next day, and the next, stretching out his beloved’s suffering; it would be unbearable, the cost too great for Victor when he was already resolved to go.

When the sound of the last clock chime died away, Victor asked Sherlock to remove the BiPAP mask. Sherlock did so with shaking hands. He struggled not to give in to tears. He held Victor’s face gently in both hands, kissing him over and over and telling him how much he was loved, how much he’d be missed. Victor struggled to breathe but mouthed ‘I love you’ breathlessly over and over then nodded toward the PCA. Sherlock reached over Victor’s head to the machine, overrode the controls and set the morphine drip wide open. He’d already hooked up the IV bag he’d prepared with a lethal dose of painkiller; he’d used all the extra doses he’d banked in the refrigerator for weeks, holding nothing back even though he’d been tempted to save just a little for himself, for later. Sherlock settled back and kissed his husband’s temple tenderly as his eyes closed for the last time. His already-labored breathing quickly became shallow, and in less than five minutes Victor left him with a soft sigh. Sherlock calmly unhooked the PCA line and coiled the tubing neatly.

Victor’s formerly muscular frame was wasted– really, he weighed next to nothing, his body ravaged by the terrible disease. Sherlock carried him to the living room. He had a vague sense that if there was a soul, Victor’s would still be close in the bedroom and he didn’t want his beloved to see him weep. Sherlock carefully arranged his husband on the sofa and lie down beside him, gathering him close and finally giving into tears. He gently stroked the face he loved best until he cried himself to sleep. John found them there, Sherlock still clinging tight, when he arrived at 8 as they’d pre-arranged. John fixed the PCA pump and called the funeral director. He’d brought along an already-completed death certificate listing time of death as 6pm. John showed the funeral director and his assistant up when the bell rang and gently lead Sherlock back to his bedroom so he wouldn’t have to watch his husband’s body being taken away. He stripped off Sherlock’s clothes, leaving just his pants, and tucked him into bed. John left briefly to see the funeral director and his assistant out then returned to the bedroom and pulled Sherlock tight. They wept together until Mary and Molly came later that night. Sherlock had fallen asleep so John let them in. His friends sat vigil over Sherlock all through the night, remarking over how their friend had grown to truly be a great man through caring for his husband.

Victor had requested his body be cremated and that no funeral be held. He’d said his funeral was the visits from people he loved while he was still alive. Sherlock interred his ashes at a churchyard in Sussex, where they’d always planned to retire together. He ordered a granite headstone with Victor’s name, birth and death dates and “dearest husband.” He invited John, Mary, Molly and Greg to come with him for the interment. He played the violin; the pastor and his friends spoke a few words. It made him happy to think that Victor was waiting in Sussex and that he’d join him when he retired.


	7. Of surviving and moving and mourning

The next eight years were filled with case work and many events with John’s family. Lestrade retired from the Yard and Sherlock’s consulting relationship with the Yard retired with him. Sherlock had had no interest in trying to build a relationship with the new DI; his private caseload was sufficient to keep him busy. He kept up a warm friendship with Lestrade and Molly. They were a comfort to him in the years since his husband’s death. 

He’d also taken an interest in bees after reading an article that described the accelerating death of bees around the globe. He became obsessed: studying about bees, reading everything he could get his hands on, corresponding with specialists at universities worldwide. He engaged the PR agency that updated John’s blog for him to start a new blog where he could post his apian research. It quickly became popular when word spread that Sherlock Holmes was its author. Thanks to this name recognition he quickly became known as a respected academic in the apiculture world.

He’d been thrilled to find that North Carolina State University had one of the most respected apiculture programs in the world. While not UNC, the North Carolina connection had made Sherlock feel like Victor was blessing his newfound interest in saving the bees. He made several trips to Raleigh to consult with professors there and took day trips to visit Chapel Hill each time. Victor’s photo from the last trip they’d taken together hung in place of honor in the athletic office. Sherlock endowed scholarships to go with Victor’s namesake award, one each for the top academic performer on the men’s and women’s basketball teams. He met the students who received the award and was pleased with the award committee’s choices. He invited them to dinner and took pleasure in discussing basketball with players on the UNC men’s and women’s teams over subs, pizza and beer. He surprised himself with his knowledge of basketball – he’d picked up more from Victor then he’d ever realized. He also found himself watching basketball on television whenever he could find a game; it had made him feel Victor was close and was an unexpected source of comfort.

At 66 Sherlock found his interest in the Work waning. He spent more and more time on his bee studies and took fewer and fewer cases. The puzzle of what was killing the bees held more attraction for him than puzzling out crimes and domestic situations. He had nearly a hundred cases he’d never given the agency to post to his blog, so he retained their services. He wrote up notes on a case or two a week and emailed them to his ghostwriters. He asked the agency to place a permanent notice on the blog that Mr. Holmes appreciated his followers but was no longer taking cases.

He engaged an estate agent in Sussex to find a cottage and went down several times to look at properties until he found just what he and Victor had talked about. He loved the dilapidated cottage the moment he saw it mainly because it was everything that Victor had said he’d wanted. Sherlock divided his time between Baker Street and the cottage for nearly two years while he rehabbed, remodeled and repaired it. Those years were both hectic and heartbreaking. He found great satisfaction in working with his hands again, sawing and hammering and painting, but it also pained him to do so without Victor; it brought back bittersweet memories of their remodel of Baker Street. Sherlock searched online and found an exact replica of the black and white iris wallpaper; he used it in the cottage’s living room. He also found wall tile to match that of Baker Street and used it in the kitchen and bathroom. He moved house slowly, taking furniture from Baker Street down and replacing what he moved as he went along. Eventually he wound up with a mix of old and new in both places, which he found comforting. Originally he’d planned to lease out Baker Street but found he couldn’t bear to think of someone else living in the home he’d shared with both Victor and John. He kept it, spending more time in London during the winter and more time in Sussex during the other seasons. 

He installed two hives in the cottage’s back garden. He also scouted the surrounding area to find farmers that were willing to let him install research hives. Eventually he built a research network of a dozen hive locations. He submitted a research proposal to his contact at North Carolina State University. It was accepted and he began a longitudinal study using the hive network. Caring for the hives, harvesting honey, carefully collecting and logging data filled much of his time.

He also kept busy with his garden and the constant work of maintaining an old house. Busyness kept loneliness at bay - for the most part. Until one of his hives experienced colony collapse and his carefully constructed world of work, work and more work collapsed along with it. He finally truly mourned Victor’s death; the pain and grief he’d controlled so carefully for so long swallowed him and broke him apart. He called John, weeping too hard to be understood, but John had understood immediately. In a matter of hours John and Mary arrived to find Sherlock sitting with his knees up and his back against the lifeless hive at the back of the garden, chilled and non-responsive. They lead him into the cottage; Mary ran a warm bath while John made tea. They cared for him as they’d cared for their children, tenderly and with great compassion. John had to return to London the next day for work but Mary had stayed on for two weeks, babying Sherlock, listening to him ramble about his late husband, holding him as he wept. John returned at the end of Mary’s tenure and took over caregiving for the following fortnight. The first violent storm of deferred grief had passed by the time John arrived but Sherlock appreciated John’s company regardless. They walked endlessly, visited Victor’s grave, spent quiet afternoons in the garden and evenings watching DVDs of the latest movies with Sherlock keeping up a scathing commentary and deducing the end – it felt like old times so long ago at Baker Street. When it was time for John to return to his busy life, they clung so long to each other on the platform that John nearly missed his train. John promised to visit often, and he did.


	8. Of heartbreak and confessions and finding oneself

John and Mary visited Sussex often together, and separately, until the horrible day when Sherlock received a call that eerily mirrored the one he’d placed to John years before. John sobbed so hard Sherlock hadn’t been able to understand a word. But he had understood, a cold knot forming in the pit of his stomach as he realized that Mary was gone. He threw some clothing in a duffle and sprinted to the station; he paced the platform until the next train north, texting his nieces and nephew and notifying friends. John’s children were there when Sherlock arrived and everyone was subdued by heartbreak. John fell into his friend’s arms and sobbed out the story: Mary had an aneurism of the abdominal aorta that ruptured. She had not had any prior symptoms. The weakened artery wall tore without warning, leaving her doubled over and screaming in pain. She’d been nonresponsive in minutes; John had frantically performed CPR but when the paramedics arrived they’d been unable to revive her. The autopsy showed the aneurism and that she’d bled out internally in a matter of minutes. 

John was inconsolable. He dreamt of Mary’s screams whenever he fell asleep and woke the house with his own screams. Sherlock stayed with John while making arrangements, through the funeral and the dark days afterward. He woke John from his dreams and stroked his hair while he cried. At one time in his life Sherlock would have given anything to be able to hold and soothe John like this; now the cost was too high and he had took no pleasure in it.

Sherlock stayed on in London for John’s sake. He hired a teenager interested in bees to tend his hives and record the data. Another local teen agreed to tend the garden and mow the grass. He found himself missing the country and felt restless alone in the silence of Baker Street. John decided to retire and tapered off his work schedule. The hospital system found a new Chief of Emergency Medicine, a young doctor of whom John thoroughly approved. Like Victor had before him, John phased himself out of his job slowly. He took to spending the night in the guest room at Baker Street – his old bedroom – several times a week. Sherlock liked the sounds of him moving around overhead – it lulled him into the best sleep he’d had since his husband’s death. In October Sherlock returned to the cottage alone to shut it up for winter. He missed John terribly during the weeks he was away from London.

In many ways they’d fallen into the patterns and habits of their younger days. John grumbled about Sherlock’s messes, but Sherlock pointed out the cleaning service still came weekly. John also nagged Sherlock to eat until Sherlock pointed out that his height and weight were still the same they’d been when he was thirty-five, unlike _some_ people he knew. Afterwards he felt bad for indirectly pointing out that John had gone a little soft around the middle over the years, but also noticed that John stopped nagging about food and even took his lead and ate less. 

The first holiday after Mary’s death – Christmas – was dreadful. Their oldest daughter hosted the family at her house. She tried to replicate her mother’s recipes but that just served to make things even more sad. The ghosts of Mary and Victor haunted the gathering and gave Sherlock a blinding headache. He begged off as soon as the meal was finished and returned to Baker Street.

John found him curled into the back of the sofa, wrung out from tears, when he came to Baker Street that evening. He sat on the edge of the sofa with his hip touching Sherlock’s and soothingly stroked Sherlock’s back. He talked to the back of Sherlock’s head, recalling the days of chasing criminals in London, of how lonely he’d been when Sherlock his faked suicide, of how Mary had pulled him from the brink of obliterating grief and brought him back to life. He spoke of his shock when Sherlock returned, his devastation over Mary’s past, his joy at holding their first daughter and later the other children. He talked into the night while caressing Sherlock’s shoulders and back tenderly, telling Sherlock of the joys and pains of his life with Mary, of years where the only thing that had kept them together was the children, of how they’d come back together as the children left home, of the mellow happiness they’d shared in their last years together.

In the wee hours John said quietly, “But through it all, Sherlock, I felt like I was living a lie. Because I loved Mary after a fashion, but I was always in love with you. I lived in regret that I’d never let you know. I knew it wasn’t something you wanted, but my heart always belonged to you.”

Sherlock at last turned to face his best friend, and replied, “Love multiplies, John, not divides. A heart can hold enough love for two people.”

John’s face crumpled in on itself, tears springing from his eyes for the first time that day. Sherlock sat up, pulled him tight and held him as he wept. “John, do you know who told me that? Victor. The first night we spent together. I told him I couldn’t see him anymore because my heart wasn’t mine to give. I told him I was in love with someone else and Victor replied with those lines. And it’s true, John, it’s true. I thought I’d always be alone because my heart was yours but I knew you didn’t want it. I thought there could never be room for another love. But there was. I loved Victor deeply but I never stopped loving you.”

Laughter broke through John’s tears; he pulled away to look Sherlock in the face. “What a couple of fools we are!”

Sherlock pulled John close again, petting his hair and kissing his cheek. “I know, John. I was such a fool when we were young. But let’s not regret the past. I had a wonderful life with Victor and you had a good life with Mary. If we’d been together all those years we might have hated each other by now.”

A wet, bubbling sound escaped from John’s throat. Sherlock didn’t know if it was a laugh, a sob or both, but he continued stroking John’s hair and back, rocking him gently.

“Do you want to move back here? Permanently?” John nodded against his shoulder, sighing and settling closer. Eventually Sherlock led John to the bedroom. He undressed him tenderly and tucked him in, then climbed into the big bed. He cuddled close and held John as he slept soundly for the first time since Mary’s death.

John’s son bought the townhouse where he’d been raised. The children didn’t think anything unusual of their father moving in with Uncle Sherlock. Sherlock had always been a part of their lives so it only seemed logical that their father would take refuge with his oldest, dearest friend. The only furniture John brought to Baker Street was his old, ratty red easy chair that had stood in the corner of his and Mary’s bedroom all those years. John didn’t feel right about occupying Victor’s chair. They rearranged the living room and moved Victor’s chair to flank the sofa. They shared Sherlock’s bed every night but only to hold each other and share a few tender kisses. The time for more had not come yet and neither man wanted to rush things.

Spring arrived and Sherlock needed to return to the country. He’d neglected his bees and his research for too long. John wanted to remain in London. They agreed to visit each other and wept at parting, but both knew that John needed time alone. He’d come to Sherlock less than a year after Mary’s death. He needed solitude to sort out his feelings for her and make his peace with the life they’d shared. Sherlock insisted that John needed time to get his feet under him and figure out who he was on his own, apart from both Mary and Sherlock.

John volunteered for Doctors Without Borders; it was something he’d always wanted to do but had never had the time. His first assignment was for three months in the jungle of Guatemala. He _hated_ it. He got heat rash then developed an allergic reaction to mosquito repellent lotion. That left him an open target for Guatemala’s legendary mosquitoes that were as big as robins. His Spanish was abysmal and he felt alienated from the people he examined as they rambled on in rapid Spanish – he barely caught a word, usually looking to the nurse, embarrassed, for interpretation. He was out of contact, nowhere near a telephone, and he missed Sherlock sorely. 

John was overjoyed to leave the jungle, and his brief humanitarian career, behind. Sherlock met him at Heathrow; he folded John into his long arms and clung like he’d never let go. They returned to Baker Street for the night but Sherlock was distracted and said he needed to return to the country the next day. His research was at a critical point and he needed to closely monitor his hives at precise times, the first of which was the following afternoon. John fell into bed, asleep before his head hit the pillow, but Sherlock was restless and spent the night awake in the living room, combing the internet and catching up on his never-ending email. They parted after a hasty breakfast, John still groggy from jet lag and Sherlock eager to get back to his hives.

John spent a week at Baker Street recovering from his trip. He and Sherlock texted and talked many times a day, but something held both men back. A reserve had developed in their relationship and they were cautious with each other, almost shy. By the weekend Sherlock had not been able to bear it any longer and confronted John directly. “Just because you come down to the country doesn’t mean we’ll have to fuck. Just get down here, we’ll see where it goes.” John laughed in relief and finally owned up to Sherlock that he was nervous about taking their physical relationship any further. “Yes, John, I know. You’re not gay and all that. What does it matter at this point? Christ’s sake, you’re 73 years old and still worried about what the neighbors will think?”


	9. Of healing and husbands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to Morwen_Maranwe who is now beta for this fic. Your comments and suggestions pushed me to be a better writer. Kudos to you!

And now John was on his way. Sherlock paced the garden, distractedly pulling weeds at random, pinching spent blooms and tossing them on the compost pile. His beloved bees droned contentedly around him and the midday sun warmed the back of his neck. He’d wanted to meet John at the station but John had insisted he stay at the cottage, that he’d take a cab. 

Sherlock was so wound up that he didn’t register the sound of car tires crunching the gravel drive at the front of the house. John opened the door quietly and dropped his bags in the living room. He saw Sherlock through the back window and went out through the kitchen. The sound of the door’s squeaky hinges finally pulled Sherlock from his reverie. He looked up to find John, tanned golden, grey hair moving in the breeze, coming across the lawn toward him. Sherlock froze in place, afraid it was just a dream, until John’s smile split his tanned face in two. Then he rushed from the garden, meeting John on the lawn and nearly toppling him in a fierce embrace. Their mouths met of their own accord, moving together in a frenzy of long-contained want. 

John tore himself away, panting and looking up at Sherlock through his lashes, decades’ worth of desire burning in his eyes. Sherlock growled and pulled John close again, kissing him harshly before leaning to whisper in his ear, “No neighbors in sight, John. The coast is clear.”

John laughed and replied raggedly, “Fuck the neighbors. I want everyone to know that we’re finally together.” He grasped Sherlock’s waist tightly and pulled him close. “Come inside. I’ve finally gotten over my ‘Not Gay’ hang-up.” Sherlock took John by the hand and led him inside, straight to the bedroom, and showed him that he had nothing to fear.

 

Later that night, with his head resting on John’s chest and their hands twined together over John’s heart, Sherlock asked John, “What are you going to tell your children?”

John nearly shouted with laughter. It took a few minutes to get his mirth under control before he could answer. “I’m worried about the neighbors and you’re worried about the children. Aren’t we a pair?”

Sherlock propped up on his elbow to look John in the eye. “Yes, I’m worried about what to tell your children. To them I’m Uncle Sherlock, dad’s best friend. This could be confusing to them, at the least. Worst case scenario is that they think we were cheating on their mother all along.”

“That would have made us cheating on Uncle Victor, too.” John couldn’t keep the laughter out of his voice.

“I’m serious, John! I don’t want your children to think less of you because of me.”

John took Sherlock’s face gently in both hands and looked earnestly into his eyes. John’s voice was calm and composed. “Sherlock I’m not going to hide what we have from anyone. I want to share this with everyone, especially my children. I’ll explain to them and just hope they believe the truth.” He leaned and in and kissed Sherlock tenderly then settled down to finally sleep.

Things went fine with the Watson children. John went up to London to tell them in person. After a few days Sherlock joined him at Baker Street. The children all came round, with their children in tow, to assure Sherlock they were happy to see their father happy. Sherlock was humbled by their acceptance of the change in the relationship he and John shared, and awed that all three children and their spouses did seem truly happy for them. They chided him that they’d now call him Daddy Sherlock instead of Uncle Sherlock. He teared up when John’s youngest granddaughter crawled into his lap and called him “Grampa Sherlock.” They invited Greg and Molly to visit and received more good wishes. They’d exchanged glances when John explained their new relationship and the tips of Greg’s ears turned red. Eventually both he and Molly burst out laughing and Greg choked out, “I gotta tell you, we all thought you were shagging years ago.” Sherlock and John joined the merriment. 

That night in bed, John took Sherlock’s hand and slipped off the heavy gold band Sherlock still wore then slipped off his own wedding band. He laid them on the bedside table and took Sherlock’s hand again. “Sherlock, we have the blessing of our family and friends. We finally have each other after a lifetime of waiting. The only thing that could make me happier would be to call you my husband. Will you marry me?” Sherlock agreed immediately, telling John that this was more than he could have hoped for. They shopped for matching bands while they were in London. John wanted gold, to symbolize they were spending their golden years together, but Sherlock countered that both of their original wedding bands were gold. In the end they agreed on simple, narrow platinum bands. Each composed a message they wanted engraved inside the other’s band, keeping it secret until their wedding day. John’s son agreed to pick up the rings and bring them down for the big day.

They returned to the country and walked into town to talk to the pastor. He was open to marrying them and posted the banns immediately. They planned a simple ceremony for three weeks hence. They went home and typed up an email for their family and close friends, preferring not to fuss with printed invitations and the usual wedding trappings. They entirely booked the bed and breakfast in town for the wedding weekend so their family and friends wouldn’t have to rush home after the ceremony.

Friends and family began arriving early morning on the day of the wedding, congregating on the church lawn awaiting the grooms. Mycroft and John’s son, the Best Men, had come down the evening before. Sherlock wore a simple charcoal suit and dark green shirt open at the throat. John said he liked that color on him because it brought out the green in his eyes. John wore a navy pinstripe suit that was so dark it almost appeared black with a baby blue shirt and burgundy/dark green/navy paisley tie. While they were dressing John asked Sherlock to pin on the tie pin he’d given John for his first wedding. They took a moment to remember Mary and Victor and the closeness they’d all shared. John went out to the living room while Sherlock finished dressing. 

At the last minute, Sherlock took a gold chain out of his dresser and slipped Victor’s wedding ring on it. He fastened it around his neck and nestled it under his shirt, out of sight. John was wearing something of Mary and it seemed only right to also have something of Victor present for their special day. John came into the bedroom just as he slipped the ring under his collar. The look in John’s eyes changed; Sherlock couldn’t identify the emotion he’d never seen before, but he understood that he’d hurt John. John recovered in a split second and all Sherlock saw was happiness on his face. He smoothed Sherlock’s jacket over his shoulders and laced their hands together – it was time to go get married.

They followed their best men to the church hand-in-hand. The day was sunny and mild without a hint of rain. The church was already filled with the Watson clan and their closest friends. The organist struck up the opening cords of _Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring_ as they entered from the vestry to stand before the pastor with Mycroft and John’s son flanking them. They’d decided beforehand that they would stick to the simple Anglican ceremony without added fluff or music. The pastor led them through their vows and exchange of rings. Both had their voice catch as they repeated “until death do us part,” remembering the pain of outliving a beloved spouse. They exchanged a quick peck before leaving by the center aisle to applause and cheers over the chords of Handal’s _Hornpipe_ from Water Music. 

They’d ordered a catered buffet to be set up in the garden and hired tables and chairs for the small crowd. The grooms lead the way back to their house followed by the jovial crowd of family and friends. The children ran on the grass and in the rows of the garden while the adults talked and ate. One of the older grandchildren had brought a guitar. She strummed classics while everyone sang along; Sherlock even knew the words to a few of the traditional folk songs. As dark fell, the children wandered into the house and found places to curl up asleep; the older children climbed the stairs to the guest bedroom under the eaves and lounged on the double bed talking and laughing until they fell asleep. The younger children piled on the sofa or on John and Sherlock’s big bed in the first floor bedroom. The adults lingered on in the garden; John built a fire in the fire pit and set up his old boom box. He popped in the CD of the waltz Sherlock had written for his wedding with Mary. He bowed to Sherlock and formally asked for the pleasure of his company on the dance floor. Sherlock led John around their brick patio in a simple waltz, executing the moves he’d taught John in the living room at Baker Street so long ago with grace and ease but omitting the dip at the end.

Eventually the adults collected their sleepy children and headed back to the bed and breakfast, and John and Sherlock were alone together for the first time since before the ceremony. John led Sherlock into the bedroom and undressed him slowly. His eyes had widened again at discovering Victor’s ring on the chain around Sherlock’s neck, but he’d remained silent, simply unclasping it and laying it gently on the dresser. He shed his own clothes and pushed Sherlock onto the bed. Their wedding night was all they’d both ever hoped for and more than they’d ever dared dream. The grooms murmured endearments to each other until they finally succumbed to sleep as the first faint rays of dawn lit the sky in the east.

The next morning they all gathered again on the back lawn of the B&B, where the catering company had set up additional tables and chairs to accommodate the crowd. The jovial atmosphere of the night before rekindled and they lingered until nearly lunchtime. Eventually the party broke up as individual families left to catch their return trains. Mycroft was the last to leave, lingering over tea with his brother and brother-in-law. The years had been kind to Mycroft. Even though he was nearly 75 he was still proudly erect with a full head of snow white hair. His gaze could still drop an undersecretary in the British service with a glance. He called himself ‘semi-retired’ but Sherlock and John knew he still had a hand in most workings of the British Government. He made several lovely comments about finally having John as a brother and hugged them both warmly when his driver arrived. 

The new husbands walked home hand-in-hand, appearing to the world as a couple of well-preserved elderly gentlemen but feeling in their hearts like two virile young men. Young men who couldn’t get enough of each other after so many years of built-up want.

**Author's Note:**

> I am by no means an artist, but I made a sketch of how I envision Victor in this fic. Please don't laugh.  
> [Victor Trevor](http://iriswallpaper.tumblr.com/image/142079512530)  
> 


End file.
